


Frostbite

by ABTwrites



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Light Dom/sub, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Sex, bottom Sombra, commissioned writing, top Widow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABTwrites/pseuds/ABTwrites
Summary: Sombra helps Widowmaker deal with over-stimulation.





	Frostbite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IceImagines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceImagines/gifts).

> This work was commissioned by IceImagines. Thank you!

It came in waves.

Sometimes, it was just a twitch in the back of her head.

Sometimes, she wanted to claw at herself it was so intense, she wanted to dig out the source from inside of her and squeeze down until it burst. Burning, a swollen heat that was all glowing iron, blackening the back of her ribs. It hurt, but she understood. It was living, how she would have to exist.

Olivia dampened it, sometimes. Being with her was grounding, her touch guided her back to a central point when the stimulation was too much, when the fire felt all-encompassing, when the water was too deep. Olivia was good at bringing her back to even ground.

Unless she was in her lap, under her hands. Unless she was bound up in her grapple rope, or she had that look of total surrender in her eyes. Unless she was panting, begging, mouth open, clever fingers dug into sheets. That was a different kind of relief; it didn’t center her, but it gave her an outlet.

In moments like this, she made it worse, but that was alright. Because all of that molten heat poured out of Widowmaker’s hands, her mouth, and she could soften Olivia, she could ravage her, singe her, force her to feel the intensity she created, and burning together was far better than burning alone.

It would be different if Olivia didn’t keen into her the way she did. Even before their run from Talon, before Moira’s death, Sombra had found ways under her skin. Shallow crevices that the doctor hadn’t yet cemented over, cracks in the foundation of her programming ready for exploitation.

She could have used her, could have taken control from O’Deorain, from Talon. She could have stolen her the way one could steal an enemy’s gun to fire on them.

But she wasn’t a gun to Sombra. She could breathe, and when they first met, that might as well have been the only difference between herself and a rifle. She breathed, slow and unnatural, and that was enough for Sombra.

Instead, she melted her, freed muscles long thought dead, nurtured her between the chains until she was thawed enough to think, to feel, to know. And when her first pure thought was “I want to kill the doctor”, Sombra got her there, collapsed Talon’s systems, risked herself to get her to the point at which the squeeze of her trigger finger was all it took.

And when her second thought had been, “I want to run with you,” Sombra had told her her real name, taken her hand, and fled.

She’d admitted to being a selfish person many times. But Sombra had always been a liar. Olivia, however, wasn’t.

Her third thought wasn’t a thought as much as a flood, an action followed by others, and at the very bottom of it all, it was a demand.

Touch me. She hadn’t said it, but it didn’t need to be said. Olivia followed her again without an argument, gleeful in her own excitement, or maybe in Widowmaker’s progress.

Routine wasn’t the right word for it, and neither was consequence, but they were Widowmaker’s only reference points. Everything was fresh and new and raw and just brushing fingertips over those parts of her that had once been black with frostbite was so intense she had to shut her eyes to them, remember how to breath without a regulator, remember that the hammering in her chest wasn’t a reward for splattering someone’s brains on pavement.

Before, she was all nuance. Sombra had to guess what the Widowmaker was thinking, what the subtle shift in her gaze meant, if the twitch in her squared shoulders was involuntary or a sign she was readying for a fight.

That was gone now, and it thrilled Olivia in all of its forms. Widowmaker reacted to her now, and her actions were obvious. Pulling her close, long fingers gripping her waist, her hair, whatever they could find for purchase. She was, dare she say, bordering on impulsive with her actions, following whatever stimulation she sensed. Her lips were still shockingly cold, skin delivering inhuman sensations wherever she touched, but Olivia loved it. Like the rest of her. Olivia tolerated too much, in Widowmaker’s opinion.

She would never be Amelie again. More than that, she would always be human-adjacent.

But Olivia hadn’t shirked away when Widowmaker first kissed her. In fact, she seemed ready for it; her motions guided her forward, the fire in her chest grew and spread, dripping over her insides like molten syrup. Her body felt living, it coursed with pulse under the shadow of Olivia’s touch.

There was no pressure. Olivia wouldn’t have pushed it. But Widowmaker fell in on her own accord, maybe chasing levels of stimulation, maybe answering questions that had been on her mind longer than she cared to admit. Her mouth, her skin, her body. Widowmaker tasted her and the pieces fell just right, her _pleases_ split her heart in two, her fingers slid against her scalp and it felt like they were meant to be there.

The toy stretched her; its resistance reminded the sniper of the taut first centimeter of her rifle’s trigger, the numbness of anticipation, Olivia’s keening like the pound of adrenaline behind her eyes begging for the motion to be completed. Arousal prickled at her nerves in concert, rolling down her breasts, lining her obliques like warm trickles of fresh blood until curling down between her legs, setting fire. Her senses were on edge and she felt like she could forget everything that wasn’t Olivia, her body, her pretty cunt taking her cock and all of her gasps, her _pleases _and _oh god_s and broken strings of Spanish when she lost her tongue.

And Widowmaker always wanted more. Neglect had left her both sensitive and greedy. She didn’t want Olivia’s desperate moans as much as she wanted her to lose her voice completely, for her legs to wrap around her thighs, for her eyes to roll back and her spine to arch and her focus to narrow down to the fine point of her fingers or her tongue or her cock inside of her.

Olivia was needy in bed. All reaching arms and straining thighs, all open-mouthed begging for _more, more, more_, and for once Widowmaker could thank Talon for something, for blessing her with the kind of inhuman endurance that could outlast Sombra. To render her to nothing, fuck her until she was as raw as Widowmaker felt, until she was small and burning under her. And even then, begging, _deeper, harder, more, keep going, oh god, oh god-_

Her mouth was so warm and wet and Olivia always wanted to kiss her when she was close to coming, always wanted to be as close as they could be, bumping teeth and swallowing each other’s moans.

Widowmaker pulled her one-handed into her lap, her cock sliding deeper, deeper, bumping against places that made her scream, made her toes curl, made her mind go slack. She held her jaw, Olivia jolting from the coolness of her tongue cutting through her lips as her opposite hand forced her hips flush, bottoming her out, swallowing her down to the hilt.

“You always look so good begging.”

Every word shocked through Olivia’s cunt. She shivered hard and Widowmaker drank it in like fine liquor, fingers tracing the sensitive joins where her spinal implants met skin.

“Jesus _Christ_,” she gasped hard, jerking as manicured nails caught against the metal. The threat of anyone _playing _with her implants sent her into a panic in normal circumstances, but under Widowmaker’s touch it turned her on, the lick of danger turning erotic with the pierce of her tawny eyes.

Her tongue skimmed over her own, stroking slow lines. Sombra sucked, Widowmaker tripped on a rasping moan as the motion brought her mind to other things, to her clever tongue bending over her clit, her smug smile pressed tenderly between her legs, her knees on the floor under her. 

Impulse made her shove Olivia back into the sheets, hand braced against her nape, as her hips picked up the pace. She slammed inside her with abandon and her sounds sharpened, her bent knees shook and jerked with exertion, her eyes screwed shut as the fire turned to tidal waves breaking against her core with every thrust. She looked like she forgot where she was, what she was, she was gleefully lost and Widowmaker couldn’t get enough of it.

“Close,” Olivia managed to choke out, her waist rolling against Widowmaker’s hands in tandem with her thrust. “Fuck, _keep going, keep_-“

Widowmaker’s breath came in short and staggered as Olivia’s back went rigid, nails dug into her thighs, abdomen flexed and rippling with stress as the fireworks triggered in her body, explosions of nerve-numbing pleasure and her crying out in a pitch that no one else would ever get to hear.

It fogged her mind, watching her come so shamelessly. Triggered reactions that were familiar but alien in this particular situation; it wasn’t just her heart hammering, but the total full-body flush of adrenaline that used to chase every kill, the rewarding force to her programming that bloomed like roses behind her eyes. Widowmaker gasped out loud as the current swept her off solid ground.

Olivia was still quaking under her, muscle going slack for just a moment before tightening up as taut as her grapple line when Widowmaker’s pace didn’t slow.

“_Oh fuck, oh god_-“

Widowmaker, less than half-present, grabbed Olivia’s shoulder and flipped her onto her stomach, yanked her hips up, leaned in harder, closer, found herself a patch of anchoring ground in her scent as she continued her thrusts right through Olivia’s orgasm.

She’d tell her to stop if it hurt. She wasn’t, it didn’t, it was on the cusp of being too much and not enough all at once and when Widowmaker’s unsteady fingers crawled between her thighs and traced cruel circles over her clit the flushing sensation of exhaustion evaporated at if it was never there and her body responded instantly with new heat.

“_Good girl_,” Widowmaker rasped against her throat. Olivia answered with a strangled moan as the cock sheathed itself inside of her, Widowmaker’s weight leaning heavily down and it triggered something primal inside of her.

“Please don’t stop,” she whined, voice small. “_Please, please_.”

Widowmaker’s opposite hand dug into the join of her hip, her teeth teased at her ear, and her pace obligingly quickened, sudden and arresting. Olivia’s cries filled her senses, carried her through the haze of their motions until her fingers were balling up the sheets again and her voice was cracked deep with exertion.

Her second orgasm was more of a wall than a wave, like slamming into a pane of glass and registering the moment right before it cracked and shattered under your momentum, slivers of pain against a rush of raw pleasure. Brutal, quick, her vison shocked white under the crushing pressure, her body went stiff as marble before it crumbled into a mess of begging and shaking and crying out for the moment to stay, stay, stay.

She crashed down hard and fast, body sagging like telephone wires into the mattress, and Widowmaker knew without being told that she couldn’t take anymore.

She whimpered weakly as the toy drew out of her, slow, careful, and her hips dropped down as if they were boneless. Widowmaker rose without a word and removed the harness, brought the toy into their small washroom. She could hear Olivia murmuring something about leaving it for the morning.

“Brat,” she teased as she returned. She slid into bed next to her, pulling up the sheet to cover them. “You are always so needy.”

“I just let you fuck me senseless and you call me a brat? Hurtful.” Olivia gave a fake frown that broke quickly into a grin, shaky fingers finding Widowmaker’s long hair.

She huddled close to the taller woman, greedy hands pulling her close by the waist, and sighed with relief as Widowmaker’s cool body contrasted against her uncomfortably warm one.

It was nice. Widowmaker pondered that simple thought for longer than felt reasonable. It was neither the extreme rush that killing brought her, or the building fire of sex, but something gentler. Something she wasn’t meant to feel, no doubt.

“Olivia.”

She mumbled an acknowledgment, sounding close to sleep.

“You are very strange.”

She chuckled like the statement surprised her.

“Yeah, said the kettle.”

Widowmaker snorted, hands settling on the smaller woman as her own body relaxed. 


End file.
